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"Greedy girl," he teases, but there's no reprimand in his tone, just the promise of more—more heat, more touch, more Doug.
I tangle my fingers in his short brown hair, pulling him closer—if that's even possible. Our kiss deepens, tongues tangling, tasting, teasing. I'm drowning in the sensation of him, and I've never felt more alive. The rain outside might as well be a world away because right now, it's just his lips, his hands, his body pressed against mine.
"God, you're good at that," I manage between kisses, my hands exploring the muscles that ripple beneath his shirt. Doug's a cop, all strong and protective, but right now, he's all mine—to touch, to taste, to drive absolutely wild.
"Only for you, Lori," he says, and I believe him. There's something in the way he looks at me, like I'm not just another girl, like I matter. And in his arms, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I do.
"Show me," I whisper, hungry for more than words, hungry for everything he has to offer. And by the way his hands are now tugging at the hem of my shirt, eager to peel away the soaked fabric, I know he's ready to give it to me—all of it.
He pivots, a fluid motion of muscle and might, and my back is against the cool wall in an instant. The sudden shift sends a ripple of excitement through me, and his body presses into mine, solid, insistent. Our connection pulses, an invisible thread pulled taut between us.
“Obsessed with you," he breathes out, his voice husky with need, shaping the words into something tangible, something that brushes my skin like velvet.
"Me too," I confess, gasping for air as if I've been running, but it's just Doug—my personal high, my exhilarating rush.
This is crazy, oh so crazy, but I’ve always been called crazy, so what the fuck?
Our lips part, reluctantly, the sound of our mingled breaths loud in the room. His gaze locks onto mine, green meeting brown in a silent conversation filled with longing and promise.
"Damn, Lori," Doug whispers, tracing the contour of my jaw with the pad of his thumb, setting off sparks. "What you do to me, little girl..."
I frown, my heart thumping wildly. "I’m not a little girl."
He cups my jaw, his thumbs tracing over where my pulse beats wilding in my throat. “You’re my little girl, sweetheart.”
His brown eyes smolder down at me like melted chocolate, and I don’t know what comes over me, but I feel myself nodding.
Doug's fingers dance downward, tracing fire along my spine. The world outside fades, it's just the storm of his touch and the rhythm of rain against the windowpane. "You sure?" he murmurs, each word a brushstroke against the canvas of my skin.
"Never been surer," I shoot back, the words tumbling out with breathless certainty.
He chuckles, low and rumbling, as he peels away my shirt, soaked through from the rain and our heat. Fabric whispers to the floor, forgotten. His hands, those strong, capable hands, mold to my waist, unhurried in their descent.
"Slow down, Officer," I tease, arching into his touch, daring him with a playful bite of my lip.
"Can't help it," Doug confesses, his voice threaded with restraint and hunger. His thumbs hook into the waistband of my jeans, his gaze never leaving mine, as if he's committing every reaction to memory. "You're under my skin, Lori."
"Good," I whisper, and it's like striking a match—the flare of his eyes tells me we're playing with fire. My jeans join the rest of my clothes on the floor, and the cool air of his apartment licks at my legs, raising goosebumps.
His fingers graze the silky edge of my panties, sending shivers racing across my flesh. Every caress is a promise, every touch a vow, as if he's mapping out territories he's claiming as his own. There's no room for doubt, not when his hands sculpt desire onto my body, coaxing moans from deep within me.
"Feel that?" He grunts as he places my hand on his erection. His palms glide up my thighs, his thumbs pressing into softness that aches for more. "That's what you do to me. You’ve had me jacking off in my shower every night to the thought of you. Dreaming of fucking you."
"Then do it," I challenge, his words making my heart sprint in my chest. He’s been dreaming of me? Masturbating while thinking of me? Why does that make liquid pool between my thighs?
Doug's lips descend, a cascade of tender kisses peppering the column of my neck. Each brush of his mouth sears a trail that scorches through my veins, a wildfire ignited with every touch. I tilt my head back, offering him more terrain to claim, and he accepts with a fervor that reverberates down to my toes.
"God, Doug," I breathe out, my voice hitching as he finds that sensitive spot just below my ear, nipping gently. It's like he knows exactly where to kiss, to lick, to bite, to draw out these raw, untamed sounds from me.
"Everything okay?" His voice is a low rumble against my skin, laughter dancing in the question.
"More than," I manage to gasp, lost somewhere between bliss and delirium.
My hands roam over his chest, fingers tracing the solid planes of muscle honed from years of police training and nights spent chasing down the bad guys. The strength under my fingertips sends a thrill spiraling through me. It’s the kind of power that could easily overpower, yet I feel nothing but safe.
"Sturdy," I tease, tapping on his pecs as if testing their resilience.
"Comes with the job," he quips back, a smirk playing on his lips before he returns to worshiping my skin.
